


We'll Rock And Roll

by luninosity



Series: Oh Boy! Or, Life's Better With A Buddy Holly Soundtrack [16]
Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Protective Michael, Soccer Aid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think I want to do the Soccer Aid match again,” James’d said. “I’ll be fine,” James’d said. “I’ll be careful,” James had said.</p><p>James, out on the field, isn’t moving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Rock And Roll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlady/gifts).



> Super horribly belated birthday fic for starlady, who asked for James and Soccer Aid and minor injuries, in this series!
> 
> Title, opening, and closing lines from Buddy Holly’s “Baby, Won’t You Come Out Tonight?” I think this is the last prompt I currently have for this series.

  
_ well, baby, won’t you come out tonight _   
_ underneath the moon so bright… _   


“I think I want to do the Soccer Aid match again,” James’d said.   
  
“I’ll be fine,” James’d said.   
  
“I’ll be careful,” James had said, eyes serious and determined and bright, meeting Michael’s across extra-spicy curry and naan and incongruous cheerfully British steam-clouded Earl Grey tea. “My knee’s been good, I’m not doing any stunt-intensive films for a while, it’s a good cause, and it was fuckin’ brilliant last year.”   
  
“I love you,” James had said, and Michael’d sighed and shoved the last piece of chicken his way in a futile attempt to offer his heart along with it and said, “I love you, too.”   
  
Now, right now, he remembers this conversation like diamonds and claw-points. Like the sharp splintering of the next breath caught in his throat. He’s on his feet, sunlight hot on his head, body numb and cold.   
  
James, out on the field, isn’t moving.   
  
James five seconds before had been running, laughing, absolutely fierce and tiny and passionate; James had been having a marvelous time, waving up at the stands and Michael’s spot in the family-and-friends section, jumping on fellow teammates, supporting the world’s charities with joyful abandon, plunging into action with all the merry ferocity of a Scottish ale-drinking battle-pixie.   
  
James had collided with another player. Both diving for the ball. A frenzy of excitable limbs. Emerald grass and dazzling spears of sunlight.   
  
The other player’d gotten up. James hadn’t. Hasn’t yet.   
  
Michael’s aware that he should be moving, should be running down to the field, and in his head he is, he’s already there, and why is time so stained-glass slow, why can’t he seem to breathe—   
  
Two other players have come over. Followed by more. Followed by a medical person. They form a concerned knot around the other half of Michael’s soul.   
  
Michael, paradoxically freed to inhale by the closing-off of sight, stumbles over his first step and manages to sprint.   
  
By the time he makes it out of the stands, they’ve gotten James off the field and sitting upright on a bench, with some support. James’s face is pale, but he’s smiling, looking briefly thoughtful, shaking his head at whatever the paramedic’s saying. Trained hands test his knee, bend that joint; James winces slightly, but is saying “No, just the muscle—” when Michael stumbles airless and shivering to his side.   
  
Some fellow charity players—one of them possibly Gordon Ramsay, though they’re a blur, all a blur, James is the only point that matters, Michael can’t give a damn about celebrity chefs and recipe-trading right now—shuffle to the left and right to give him room. Out on the field the game’s continuing. Shouts and whistle-blows and audience-cheers.   
  
“Hi,” James says, looking up, reaching out for him. Michael sinks down on the bench. Shaking, shaken. The wood’s solid and unflinching under their weight. The air tastes like crushed grass-stems and sweat and fear; his own, that last.   
  
He whispers, “Are you—”   
  
“I’m fine.” James leans into his arms, though, so the statement’s less reassuring than it could be. Michael brushes grass-bits and broken dandelion pieces out of dark hair. His heart aches strangely. James is up and talking and wanting to be held; but James is wanting to be held, in front of everyone. James had needed help getting off the field.   
  
“I am.” James kisses the corner of his mouth, underscoring words with surety. “Just nice having you to lean on. Pulled muscle. Not serious.”   
  
“Not—not serious…you didn’t…”   
  
Their paramedic, glancing up, holding an ice-pack to James’s leg, fills in, “Re-aggravate anything? No, he didn’t. I’m _sure_.”   
  
“Hey, now,” James observes, “I did tell you, at the first team physical, before we even did any training.”   
  
“And I recall suggesting you not play. Allergies, asthma, that old tearing of that ligament…”   
  
“Years old!”   
  
“And you have trouble with our front steps in the rain,” Michael says. “I’ve seen you. I’ve massaged you. How badly are you hurt, right now?”   
  
James looks at the medic. Who looks at Michael, and shrugs. “Pulled muscle. Not serious—”   
  
“See?”   
  
“— _this_ time.”   
  
James sighs.    
  
Michael, who knows perfectly well that James will say no, tries, “I can take you home?”   
  
Big blue eyes assume mournful-ocean status.   
  
It’s Michael’s turn to sigh, at that.   
  
Their paramedic says dryly, “Yeah, that one worked on me too, during team physicals.”   
  
“Sorry?” James offers, in the tone of someone not sorry at all if it means he gets to stay for the end of the match. “I’ll behave myself.”   
  
“You?” Michael drops a kiss on his forehead, not caring about the dirt, loving the fact that James looks less pale and more annoyed by the second. “You’ve yet to convince me you know the meaning of the word. But…if you don’t move…if you let me put you in bed when we get home…”   
  
“It’s a _pulled muscle,_ ” James protests plaintively, but then sees the expression in Michael’s eyes and goes quiet.   
  
The paramedic interjects, getting up, “It is, and you’ll want to use that leg as little as possible, because extra strain on the older injury won’t be a good feeling, and by that I mean you’ll probably scream a lot.”   
  
James’s eyes get even bigger. Michael tightens the arm around him and summarizes from previous occasions. “So…rest, ice to keep the swelling down, heat later, maybe, to help relax the muscle, careful stretching…tying him to the bed for a day or two…”   
  
“Oh, I like that one.”   
  
“Not what I meant. Not _now_. Anything else?”   
  
“I’ll leave you some anti-inflammatory prescriptions, and some painkillers—” James flinches, not visibly because James is an outstanding actor, at that. “—and check up on you next week, but you should be fine.” There’s a sudden uproar from the field; the medic rolls his eyes. “More of you. I’m not getting paid enough for this. Look, James, you’ll be okay, just keep the sex jokes only jokes for a week or so, all right?”   
  
“All right.” James actually sounds a tiny bit subdued. Michael worries, and kisses him again. And then they’re alone, barring the presence of concerned background teammates and water-bottles, in their microcosm of bench and ice-packs and mutual slowly-calming heartbeats.   
  
He says, chin resting atop James’s head, “You’re going to tell me you want to play next year, aren’t you.”   
  
James laughs, more a flicker of amused exhale than anything else, but that’s the desired result, James laughing, so that’s okay. “I’m…going to tell you I’d like to, it’s a fuckin’ great cause and you know I love football and it’s such an incredible thing we’re doing…but maybe I’ll be more careful about stretches and warm-ups and not jumping on people in between starts. Fair?”   
  
“Fair. _If_ you take the painkillers when you need them.”   
  
“You know why,” James says, voice forlorn but not arguing. They’ve had that argument. They’ve found that compromise.   
  
“I know.” He gets an arm under sturdy Scottish shoulders. “Want a better view? We can move you. And I promise I’ll be there. I’ll wake you up if you need me to. I swear.”   
  
James doesn’t react well to painkillers. Side effects. Deeper unshakeable sleep. Increased likelihood of those nightmares, that one specific nightmare, the one with the tall man-shaped black figure standing still and poised beside his bed, the bed where James lies too petrified to move or tremble or speak, because then he might be noticed…   
  
Those dreams’ve happened less lately. Michael’s arms, Michael’s familiar warmth, Michael feeding him hot cocoa or baklava before bed, those all mean something. Chipping away at the monolith of the dark.   
  
The dark’ll be worse in the strangling arms of drowsiness-inducing painkillers. He knows. They know.   
  
James meets his gaze, awkwardly propped up against him, preparatory to getting up and moving back closer to the field. Those eyes’re very blue. So blue. Hope like summer skies, sapphire and gold.    
  
James nods, smiling faintly. Believing him. Trusting him to do what he’s promised. To be there.    
  
“I promise to tie you to the bed for, y’know, real, next week,” Michael tells him, “once you’re fine,” because James will be fine, that’s real too, as real as their heartbeats falling into time. And James grins and says, “Can we use my Soccer Aid official suit tie?”   


  
_ well, baby, I love you so _   
_ and I hope your answer won’t be no _   
_ if you come out we’ll rock and roll _   
_ come on, baby, let’s go! _   



End file.
